Miles to Go
by Tomolonis
Summary: The Winchesters were in trouble, and Castiel was desperate. Still believing he needs to do penance for his sins, Castiel finds a solution that Dean is anything but fond of. Dean struggles to get back what Castiel lost, before facing the wrath of heaven and hell - again. Destiel. Mostly canon compliant up until 08x08, then it veers from canon. M for themes, violence, language, ect.
1. Talk to Me

Without sleep, without rest, the mind goes on forever. Every single possibility for anything at all lingers in the soul, captivating in its own dark sense. There had always been doubts. There had always been fears, twisting around in Castiel's being until he finally shut them all down. As an angel, it was his job to carry out his Father's wishes with mindless obedience – never questioning, never doubting, and never thinking for his own personal benefit. Mentioning doubts would have meant blasphemy, which was something so unspeakable that Castiel had never really considered the risk worth it. In every way, Castiel was a soldier – perfectly capable of going through with any order, any command, with only mindless faith leading him through the dark patches of his mind.

That was, until one particular order had commanded him take a trip downstairs, into Lucifer's domain. He remembered his brother; the fallen brother who had questioned their Father, insisting it was only out of love. Ridiculous. Lucifer was blasphemous, and most certainly deserved what he got.

This order however, seemed simple enough. "Retrieve the soul," he'd been told, "of Dean Winchester. That is our Father's wish." More information followed, of course; Lilith, the seals, Lucifer, the apocalypse, Sam, Michael. For most, it would have resulted in some sort of informational overload; but for Castiel, large amounts of information were commonplace.

Castiel could still remember Hell.

The screaming had rippled through the pit and pierced him, his deep blue eyes troubled as the other angels and himself fought to locate the righteous man. The task was daunting – never before had it been so vital to rescue a soul, so pivotal to stop it from turning. However, the demons were relentless in trying to delay them, and the second the blood was spilled, the pit rocked, and the angels knew the apocalypse had begun.

For some reason, the blood spilling was not what troubled Castiel the most; moreover, he found himself concerned with the question of how this man – Dean – would handle knowing what he had become in Hell. Was it right to rescue him, and leave his memory intact? Would it not be much more just to erase the horrors, erase the pain, and let him continue living?

But there were no questions allowed in regards to Heaven's orders, and so Castiel did as he was told.

Castiel could still remember Hell. The blood. The agony. The demons. The evil.

It had been years since he'd seen it last, but the angel found himself wishing he had stayed put. Then, in his mind, he would never have been able to cause the destruction of Heaven and Earth.

"Talk to me."

Dean's voice brought Castiel back to the present, his mind snapping back to full attention. He was so close, across from him, his green eyes light with concern, but dark with worry. That was Dean – always thinking everything was his fault. Always thinking that, for some reason, he was responsible for everything.

"Cas."

Cas' shaky hands put down John Winchester's journal, before he finally met Dean's gaze. "Dean –" But how would it be possible to make him understand? To make this man understand all the devastation his own mistakes with Crowley had caused? "The death toll, in heaven, on earth – Dean. I can't go back. I won't go back."

"The angels will kill you?" Dean's tone was matter of fact – proud, as if he'd thought that was all there was. Cas found himself smiling, in spite of himself, wondering if it could ever be that simple. If Cas thought the angels wanted to kill him, he would have returned long, long ago. But they wanted him alive – that much he knew. So really, his only fear…

"Dean, I'm afraid I might kill myself."

The words were quiet, but the truth in them was obvious. After all, Castiel had stayed in Purgatory to punish himself. And now he was contemplating putting himself up on the rack, to do even more penance. And yet, Hell seemed like nothing compared to the hurt, the flash of mortification that crossed Dean's features. The man was about to say something, but the angel pressed a finger to his lips, sensing Sam Winchester's presence.

"Soon, Dean. All in good time." Dean was about to argue – his mouth was opening, his eyes hardening with that stubbornness that had won Castiel over in the first place. "I promise," he added, the door to the motel opening just seconds later. Shaky hands picked up John Winchester's journal once again, and the angel was too afraid to meet Dean's eyes. He waited until the two brothers were talking before drifting back into his mind again.

Castiel could still remember Hell. And it was less than he deserved.


	2. All In Good Time

It had been a week since Cas had made his confession, and still the bastard had not held up on his promise. Every day, Dean found an excuse to be alone with the angel – telling Sam to go make a pie run, telling Sam to go grocery shopping for his bunny food, or even just telling Sam he was sick of his face and that they needed an hour apart.

The last one was always entertaining – the younger Winchester would scoff, roll his eyes, but grab the keys to the Impala and head out anyway. It was the method Dean had gone with today, his feet propped up on the motel room's coffee table. Cas was sitting near the window, paying neither of them any attention, until Dean further provoked the little brother. "What's the matter Sammy – too much of a girl to argue?" Cas' head whipped around just in time to notice Sam's hand grab something off of the counter, hurling it in his older brother's direction before grabbing the keys and taking off.

A hard object collided with the side of Dean's face, and upon further inspection – it was an empty beer bottle. The door had already shut and closed behind Sam before Dean yelled to him again, an indignant look plastered across his face. "Weak!" He expected better from his brother; more of a fight. That's what made the whole thing fun. Chuckling, he placed the bottle down and turned to the angel, who had once again turned to face the window, probably knowing by now what Dean was up to. Nowadays, the man was always thinking about something – and it made Dean's head hurt, trying to figure out what it was. "Cas," he called out to him, impatience quickly taking over his senses. "You promised, man. We need to have this talk."

It wasn't like him to want to talk about feelings. Hell, he hated chick flick moments. The last thing Dean needed was for anything he said to seem as though it could be from some goddamn Hallmark card. But Cas had been acting strange lately, and it bothered him far more than he'd ever want to admit. This was getting past the point of blowing over; and though Dean didn't like emotions, he still possessed them.

"I told you Dean. All in good –"

"Cas, I swear to fucking hell if you say 'all in good time', I will find a way to punch you, and make it hurt."

The eldest Winchester had raised himself up from his bed, crossing the crammed space at the motel easily. The angel did not respond, and the anger he felt, welling up inside him, was beginning to surface. "Don't you _dare _think of doing anything stupid, Cas. I swear I'll trap you in a circle of holy fire until you tell me what the _hell _is going on up inside of that childlike head of yours." Dean knew he was being harsh – but Cas wasn't giving him a choice. The guy sulked around all day, unless they were hunting. And then he looked so lost sometimes that even Sam noticed.

"The last time we talked," Dean went on, stepping closer to the angel's side, "You told me you were afraid you might kill yourself. Well I'm sorry," his voice was grating, emotional words hard for him to say due to being so out of practice. "But I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You're not allowed to give up Cas – I won't let you."

The angel's eyes lifted, his head tilting in Dean's direction only after everything was silent once again. Dean opened his mouth, ready to continue, but Cas interrupted him.

"It's not that simple, Dean. You assume I'm plagued only by guilt. But I believe," Cas' face hardened, his jaw clenching minutely, "I believe I should still be in Purgatory. I believe I should still be doing penance. And Dean," he went on, low, dangerous – intimidating even –, "If I wish to do penance, I will do so. I am an angel. You are a man. There would be no way to stop me."

That hurt. Dean felt his stomach clench, his gut telling him that Cas was going to do something stupid – and very, very soon.

"Holy fire," he spat out before thinking, the words coming fast and desperate, "For God's sake Cas –"

"That's what got us into this mess, Dean. God. My disobedience. Do not mention his name in my presence again. I feel we have touched upon this subject enough. Trust me. I'll only do what I feel is best – what will help everyone."

Cas was talking like someone with a death wish; and Dean recognized it only because he remembered exactly what that felt like. He remembered exactly how often he wished to fall asleep and never wake up, but knowing that he would have to keep going because of his family. But his family didn't need him – that had been proven on multiple occasions. And now he watched the angel turn his head, his eyes going back to the window in order to avoid more arguing. Something inside of him longed to speak up again. But instead his face hardened, the reflection of the window allowing him to see the darkening of his green eyes, the set of his own jaw and tensing of his muscles.

"I will trap you, Cas." In truth, he should be saying something far more comforting. But hell, it was hard to comfort him when Dean had no idea what he was thinking. "Just – like I said, nothing stupid."

His hand touched the angel's shoulder, briefly, lingering only a second past how long he would touch any other soul. Cas was different though; he just didn't know how – or why.

Dean's steps took him back to bed, his body melting into the cheap mattress after sliding a quarter into the vibrations slot.

So this was his way of letting Cas alone for a minute; his way of allowing them both to cool off, and to think more logically about the situation. Cas would never hurt himself. The idea was idiotic, in any sense. Dean's facial features lifted after only a few moments, a smile reaching his eyes for the first time in days. While he wasn't happy with what Cas said – Cas spoke to him. And in that, Dean was hopeful he'd be able to figure out just what Cas had planned. Almost out of nowhere, Dean's eyes shut, heavy with how much emotion he'd been showing. His sleep came quickly, brought on almost miraculously, a feeling of peace drifting over him and making him smile.

He did not notice then, when the angel touched his face. He did not notice then, as the angel whispered, only to disappear soon after the words were said.


	3. To Heaven and Back

It was always more thorough to examine every possibility before jumping to conclusions. And Castiel, thanks to the help of looking through Dean's mind, was finished running. While he held no desire to talk about Heaven with Dean, Heaven was not something the angel could continue to avoid. Dean was worried, and he had not needed to go through his mind to find that much out. The way the man carried himself made his worry tangibly obvious. However, Dean was wrong about one thing - there _were _suspicions in Castiel's head – mulling themselves over, tuning about in his skull like little gears in a clock. Of course the angel had always thought it odd that he had miraculously escaped monster land. He recognized now that there was no way he could have gotten out of Purgatory without Heaven's assistance. That was certain, though he'd never told this to Dean, opting instead with the option of telling the eldest Winchester that he did not remember. While this was true for the most part, Castiel was far too smart to be completely ignorant. So if Heaven had assisted in his break from Purgatory – why did Heaven feel the need to intercede?

It was a question that needed to be answered, however hard returning to the land of his Father would be. Was he even allowed to return to Heaven? Would it even be possible? The answer to that question rested with the angel mojo he had left – and, inexplicably, Castiel found himself to be at full power.

Bright blue eyes raised themselves to the sky as the angel breathed in; light pierced him, taking him, until he opened his eyes to view the Heaven of the autistic man that he enjoyed so much. He did not deserve to linger here, however, and stayed only briefly, to cross into one of the battlefields. This is where he had caused all the devastation – and this is where he needed to be.

Heaven was in ruin. Chaos reigned, the administrations and councils collapsing faster than Castiel could ever have imagined. He'd turned the switch back on to hear the angels conversing – they were worried, lost, unhappy. So much misery. So much pain. And all of it – every single ounce of it – was all his fault.

While the bodies of his murdered brothers and sisters had been taken care of, Castiel could still picture them as he looked around. The grass seemed so much darker, as if the angel's blood had forever stained the purity that he'd once known. He could still see every death, replaying before his eyes, forcing his hands to shoot up, gripping his head tight in order to keep it together. Anna. Balthazar. Gabriel. All lost, due to this war. And those were only three names – three, out of thousands. And most of them had either died by his own hand, or by his command. Too much to bear, too much to –

The angels knew he was back. And they were screaming.

Castiel's head was aching with the questions they were all shooting to him. Pain shot through him like fire, slow spreading – but torturous. Some of the angels offered words of comfort. Most, however, were shocked and appalled that he dared show his face again in their Father's kingdom.

Too much to bear – he shut them off and disappeared, landing back on earth in a collision that caused the cement to split. He took in the surroundings instantly– he'd picked wisely; done something right for once. Calm would not come, adrenaline ruling his grace and his body. It had been ridiculous to think that going to Heaven would solve anything. Instead, the angel found himself feeling even worse than before, his heart heavy with the despair he had no idea what to do with. For this reason, he knew he would have to continue being a hunter with Dean and Sam. Eventually his power would waste away, and then he would truly be fallen – but still, that was less than he deserved.

He was back in the motel room of Sam and Dean so hurriedly that Dean was still fast asleep. Sam was back, and smiled to him as he entered. Castiel nodded, sitting down at the table across from him.

"I found a case," the youngest Winchester pushed the newspaper over to him as he spoke as if narrating his points, "And I think it's demons. I think it might be Crowley, actually. And we still need to get to Crowley and stop him before he gets to Kevin again. You know he won't rest until he has that Word again."

Castiel appraised him, tilting his head as he examined Sam. He knew Sam wanted nothing to do with any of this. He was fighting tooth and nail to stop complaining, but Castiel knew the truth. This was not Sam's idea of living – and he was determined to be finished with all of this business as soon as possible. That drive – that eagerness to be done with hunting – that was clouding his judgment. It would be foolish to go after Crowley now, with no leverage.

Unless…maybe they _did _have leverage.

A spark of hope flashed across Castiel's face, his eyes brightening with an idea. His hands grasped the paper tighter as he looked over the article, reading quickly, drinking in every single word. Yes, this was most definitely the work of Crowley trying to find Kevin. Demons were circling, waiting for their master's orders. This was all very, very good news.

"You're right. I am one hundred percent certain that Crowley is behind this." Sam was looking at him blankly, waiting for him to elaborate. Sometimes it was incredibly difficult to work with humans. He wished, quite often, that they could process information as fast as he could by himself. "Which means, Sam, if we can get to the lower level demons and make them talk, we'll have Crowley's whereabouts."

Castiel could tell when Sam understood the gravity of the situation; he knew the younger Winchester was now only thinking about how this would all soon be over. "But Dean," Sam started speaking, dragging Castiel from his thoughts, and forcing him to meet the man's eyes, "He can't torture –"

The angel's hand slapped the paper down so fast that Sam thought the table might be broken. "I –" Sam tried to apologize, but Cas had already stood, anger emulating from him and making the man realize just how powerful the angel across from him was.

"I will _never_," Castiel spoke darkly, not allowing Sam to look away, "Allow Dean to go through that ever again. Do not even suggest it." He had to pause, to swallow down his newfound emotions in order to control himself and power down. "No." He whispered, taking in another breath before continuing once again. "I have a plan. Dean will be safe. You will be safe. We will talk about this in more elaborate detail when he wakes up. I dislike having to repeat myself for nothing."

Castiel did not wait for a reply, but instead went to sit on the bed opposite Dean, his brow furrowing with deep thought. Dean would not like his actual plan, and so it would be necessary to lie.

But Dean, well he'd – what was it he said?

The angel's fingers moved to the sleeping man's face, his touch light and gentle – almost hesitant. He would never dare do this if Dean were awake. Castiel smiled when he remembered what Dean had said, so very long ago, when they had first really started becoming friends.

When humans want something really bad, he'd said, they lie.

"When an angel wants to protect a human," he breathed, only for his own ears, "They lie."


	4. Demon Grounds

"So you're telling me," Dean continued chewing his burger, not bothered in the slightest by talking with his mouth open, "That Crowley is in this place, just waiting to give orders to kidnap the kid?" He just wanted to make some sort of conversation to make up for the awkward drive.

The drive in the Impala had seemed unusually long, with every single minute dragging by, scraping at Dean's already short-fused nerves. Sammy's comments had been especially annoying as he continually complained about the music choices, whining at him to turn it down, and telling him to stop eating while he was driving. To please his younger brother, Dean had glared at him before throwing the sandwich out the window, his focus back on the road. Strangely enough, Sammy wasn't really what had bothered him most about the drive. For years they'd put up with each other's bullshit, so it wasn't too different from any other day. What irked Dean most – Cas' silence. The angel hadn't said a goddamned word to him apart from explaining the news article to him back at the motel. After that, Cas had gone completely quiet, sitting in the back of the Impala with no complaint and looking out the window for the whole of the ride.

Bastard needed to stop brooding all the time.

The diner was not crowded at all, and the three men were so far off from any crowd that Dean couldn't be bothered to think anything of discussing the plan here. Sammy was still looking at him with disgust because he was talking with his mouth full – but hell, he couldn't please everyone. And this burger was damn good, and a long time coming.

"Yes, Dean. I thought we had already been over this." Cas answered with such a monotone that Dean couldn't help but snort.

Damn. Angel wasn't taking any shit today. "Cas," the eldest Winchester found himself laughing after he swallowed down another bite. "You need to chill out, man. Relax. We've dealt with Crowley and his little shit demons before. And now we have you, and to be honest," his lips touched the top of his beer, the cool liquid sliding down to was down the leftover remnants of food, "I'm not worried. You smite demons just by touching them. We have the knife, and the element of surprise. What the hell more could we want?"

His fingers plucked up some French fries from his plate, placing them in his mouth as his lips curved into a snarky grin.

"It's not going to be easy, Dean. Crowley certainly will know we are there long before he would like us to. And while I can smite demons, that is a sure way to attract more attention."

Hell, that was true.

"Cas is right, Dean." Sammy piped up from the other side of him, his rabbit-inspired salad barely touched. "If he just starts smiting demons, Crowley is going to know it's us. And Crowley's still after Cas."

Dean looked up just in time to see Cas look away, as if this information was unimportant.

"Is that true, Cas? Crowley's still after you? Then we can't just go storming in!" With a thud, the beer in Dean's hand had been placed back down onto the table. "No. New plan. You stay behind, Sammy and I will solve all this. We can't risk Crowley getting ahold of you."

Cas did not look at him, but instead nodded, speaking quietly.

"If…" The angel trailed off, his head tilting as it always did when he was in deep thought. Dammit, he was probably going to argue, and Dean really wasn't in the mood to defend his choices. These people needed to have more trust in him. "If that's what you think is best," Cas finally spoke, still never looking at him, "I'll stay behind then."

Well that was easier than Dean had ever thought to be possible. His eyes glinted, his hand curling back around his beer as he took another sip. "Good. We'll go after him tonight, soon as Sammy here takes his vitamins."

The punch to his shoulder that resulted from the comment didn't hurt, but instead forced a grin from Dean's lips. Sam was rolling his eyes, paying the waitress whom Dean thought had a _very _nice ass. "Leave her a good tip," he mumbled, watching as she moved back to the kitchens, and ignoring the exasperated sigh that his brother directed towards him as he left more money.

"It's not polite to objectify people, Dean."

Cas had already turned back away before Dean could think of a proper comeback for the angel's surprising spark of humor. "Well…you're not…polite…in objectifying."

Sam was laughing too hard for comfort, making the older Winchester uncomfortable. Dean's jacket was around his shoulders faster than ever as he pulled it tight, grimacing. "Oh, ha ha ha, very funny Sam." The younger Winchester rose as well, shaking his head before touching his brother's shoulder.

"Well it's not my fault you just got burned by an angel of the lord."

"Oh shut the hell up Sammy. We have better things to do." His eyes glanced back over to Cas, who was already at the door of the diner and waiting for them to get there and meet him. Dean didn't say anything to the bastard as he passed him in the doorway, instead moving to sit in the front of the Impala, already jamming the keys into the ignition. His lips couldn't help but turn up though, as the Impala started up. There was always something about Cas being sarcastic that made the oldest Winchester feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Green eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, watching the angel settle into the back before he glanced at Sammy. This was his family, and he'd damn well do everything he could to keep them safe. "Time to check into our motel!" His hands turned the wheel as they pulled out into the street, immediately taking one off of the wheel to crank up the music. As they drove, his eyes once more flashed to the rear view mirror – where the angel met his look with a tilt of his head, and the smallest smile.

* * *

"Sammy! Let's go!" Dean's bag was already tossed over his shoulder, impatience radiating from him like an actual aura. "We've been waiting here long enough. Cas said it's dark enough to –"

"I'm here Dean!" Sam sighed and gripped his own bag, looking at the angel who was still sitting atop Dean's bed. "You sure you're gonna' be alright, Cas?"

The angel's brows furrowed, his eyes staring straight into the younger Winchester's. "Yes, of course Sam. Why would I not be?"

Good enough for Dean. The damn angel wouldn't dare move after what they'd talked about. He seemed alright enough now; hell, he was even watching the TV again instead of staring out the goddamned window.

"You heard him Sammy. Time to move. These demon bitches aren't getting any younger, and I'm in the mood to gank something – Cas – stay put. We'll be back." Turning, Dean closed the door and threw Sammy his bag before getting into the Impala. The demons were hiding out somewhere close by – some warehouse like always, but at least it was out of civilian view.

The brothers were quiet through the drive, but Dean was not at all nervous. He'd been waiting a long time to gank Crowley, and the fact that the King of Hell could soon be dead was something that struck him as a good thing. He'd do whatever it took to convince himself that he was not a completely terrible person.

"Dean."

The oldest Winchester looked over to the other occupant of the car, about to question what he wanted, when he noticed the turn was coming up – fast. The Impala made a grinding noise as Dean swerved the wheel, a grimace replacing the poker face he'd been wearing the entire ride. "Sorry baby," he breathed, patting the dashboard before pulling up near the warehouse.

"Does it seem too quiet to you?"

A long silence followed Dean's question, the creases in the elder Winchester's forehead deepening as each moment passed by. The place should be swimming with demons. In his opinion, they should already have been attacked. But instead here they were, sitting safely in the Impala, with no demon or demonic signs in sight. There was no hint of sulfur, no touch of black smoke. Nothing.

"You don't think they all left, do –"

Shards of glass erupted as the Impala's windshield shattered, slicing through the skin of Dean's face faster than he could react. "Sammy!" His hand found its way to his gun, shooting out the windows while pushing his brother further down into the seat for safety.

"Dean! Look –" A crack reverberated through the Impala as one of the attacking demons forced Dean's face into the dashboard, the other demon already having grabbed Sam. Sam could feel the cement digging into his skin, pulling at it as the demon began dragging him away. "Dean!" He coughed out, noticing that his brother wasn't moving. "No – no, no – Dean!" He thrashed, trying to get to his gun before he could be dragged any further. But they had been ambushed – the whole thing had been a specially designed trap.

"De –" The demon shut his mouth immediately, three of them already holding him in place while they dragged him into the building and away from the Impala. In the distance, he could see the limp figure of his brother being brought inside – and could only hope that he wasn't dead.

"Don't you worry kiddo," a female cooed, stroking his face as he thrashed, "He's alive for now, though the boss won't let that be the case for long." Sam continued to fight, going for his gun again, only to have it be whipped away. "Ah, ah, ah…Mr. Crowley likes it better when you boys are playing nice."

He had to come up with a plan – had to –

The female demon was laughing, looking to her fellow coworkers after having cracked her fist across Sam's head. "That was easier than expected. Both Winchesters out cold. C'mon – let's get them to the boss."


	5. Unnatural Dealings

The motel room seemed so unhappy, so lifeless without the brother's company. The television screen – or TV, as Dean called it – continued to run, but the cartoons were unable to catch Castiel's attention. Sam and Dean Winchester had left only minutes ago, and by his calculations, the brothers would arrive at the warehouse in about five point seven minutes. It would be filled with demons, waiting to attack, waiting to pounce upon the unsuspecting men who were fearless enough to barge in. Demons would not, however, be the only occupants of the warehouse. Castiel knew Crowley himself had situated in the run down place, and knew of his plan to kidnap the Winchesters and kill them, after a very harsh interrogation session. Staying behind in this musty motel room was not ideal; in fact, it was making Castiel crazy. But he had to wait for the exact moment, the exact frame of time where he would be needed. Until then – and not a minute before – Castiel was to stay put, his eyes gazing ahead at the television set, but unseeing.

Tension was pulsing through the angel's grace, doubts and fears clouding his vision. This plan of his – was it the right thing to do? Castiel did not know if there would ever be a true answer to his own questions. Of course, to him, everything he had planned was for the best. But seeing Dean's face when he realized –

That would be what hurt the most, of course. But it was not a secret that the angel had always possessed some sort of soft spot for the hunter.

Two point three minutes until the Winchesters would arrive at Crowley's. Three point five minutes until Dean and Sam would both be unconscious, having been ambushed by demons that they had no chance of fighting off with only one knife between them.

Castiel was shaking now. He could feel the vibrations setting in, his skin dancing from the nervousness that plagued him. He acknowledged it did not make sense to feel this way; after everything he'd done, on heaven and on earth, this task was almost miniscule. It was the lying that did not feel right – but it had to be done, as he could not afford to take any chances. Everything had to go exactly as planned. No hesitations, no questions, no doubts. Castiel was trying to slip back into the mind set of having no emotion; but Dean Winchester's face haunted him, and kept the doubts fresh within his mind.

No. He was doing this for Dean – all of it. He was doing this for the greater good, and that is what would matter.

The Winchesters had been taken; Castiel could feel it. Slowly, the angel rose from the motel's bed, the flutter of his wings the last sound the room would hear until the brothers returned.

"Crowley."

The King of Hell was facing the opposite wall, the room he had decided to make his hideout remarkably luxurious. As long as Castiel had known the demon, Crowley had always had a taste for the finer things. For a moment, Crowley did not move, did not answer the low tone of Castiel's utterance. Soon though, the demon was smiling, facing him and holding out his hands in a sign of welcome.

"Castiel! The one angel whom I'd like nothing more than to throw down into the Pit myself. Please, have a seat. Welcome. Kick back, relax, have a drink." The demon's arm extended, a half-filled glass of scotch the offering. "And while we're at it," Crowley breathed out, the corner of his mouth turning into a sort of grimace, "Would you care to tell me how in the name of hell you got out of Purgatory?"

"That's not why I'm here." Castiel's eyes flickered down to the glass, but he made no move to take it. His feet carried him closer to the demon that backed away from him, subtly, until his back was to the wall. "I'm here," Castiel's voice was a deep whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear him, "To make a deal."

The tension in Crowley's limbs did not loosen, but instead got worse. "I – an angel, here to make a deal? You're going to have to do a lot better than that mate, to get me to believe any shit you're –"

"No, Crowley." Castiel's tone was biting, cutting through Crowley's sentence easily as the angel's face moved closer to the demon's. "I happen to know that you have the Winchesters locked up in one of your cells. Release them. Leave them alone. Forever. Leave any family, any friends, any person they so much as say 'hello' to alone. Forever. No monsters after them. No demons after them. No Hellhounds. Nothing. Not a scratch on them is to be made by you, by your command, by your wishes, or by anyone in your charge."

Now this, The King of Hell found funny. "You've gotta' be joking, mate. You just sold me out on fucking _purgatory_, and now you waltz in here doing your little tutu dance thinking I'm going to be so afraid of you that I'll agree to that. Well I've got news – kill me, it's hard sure, but I don't doubt your power. I can tell you though," he took a sip of his scotch, though his eyes never left the angel's, "My demons will never leave them alone. You can watch them _burn._ Forever."

Crowley winced as Castiel moved even closer, the angel's hands now pressing hard into the demon's shoulders, pinning the King of Hell against the wall.

"You think I ask this of you for nothing in return?" Castiel could feel himself smiling, the corners of his lips turning up with the slightest bit of amusement as his once bright blue eyes turned steely. "I said I was here to make a deal, Crowley. Those are simply my…conditions."

A pause. The pause was deafening. The angel wanted the man in front of him to say something, anything at all to –

"And what do you have," the demon began, a quizzical expression taking over his features, as Castiel snapped back to the present, "That I would want more than the bloody Winchesters?"

At this, the angel loosened his grip upon the demon, taking a step back as he stared blankly into Crowley's face. This was the whole reason Castiel had come – the whole meaning behind his plan. And it was time to put it all into action.

"Me."

Crowley was too stunned to answer. For a long moment, the demon found his mouth opening, only for it to close itself again, words failing him.

Sensing the demon's problem, Castiel continued. "You can have me. On the rack. Forever."

The angel could tell the offer was more than tempting to the demon – almost too good to be true. An angel of the Lord, down within the Pits of Hell, on the rack, to be tortured for all eternity. He could read the thoughts within the demon's mind, and answered one of Crowley's unspoken questions easily.

"In Hell, Crowley, I will not be impervious to pain. I'll be, because I will make it so, just like any other human soul."

His eyes pierced the demon with such intensity that Crowley found himself uncomfortable for the first time in, well, years.

The King of Hell swallowed, downing the rest of his scotch, before his face turned upwards in a large, sadistic grin. "You have yourself a deal, mate. The Winchesters have forever escaped my radar. You do know though," he found himself chuckling, "How to seal a deal?"

This was the part Castiel had been looking forward to the least. "I am not uneducated, Crowley. I have witnessed my fair share of deals from Heaven."

"I can't say I'm not looking forward to this either, Cas-y boy," Crowley was grinning so wide his teeth were showing, "I've always thought you were a pretty angel."

"Enough." Castiel's hand wrapped around the demon's head, pulling it towards him in a kiss that actually burned both sets of lips. Everything about it was unnatural; and yet, Castiel had broken so many rules that he could not bring himself to care. This was for Dean – for Sam. For everyone they cared about. They would never have to worry, never have to hide. Because of this, they would always be safe.

The two men pulled apart, and as it happened, Castiel could feel his grace draining from him. Fallen. Fallen in so many ways. All that pain, all that death, all that devastation – everything he'd caused – it taunted him as he stared back into the grinning demon's eyes. He could never make up for it, never make it better – and he would be doing penance soon.


	6. Bright White Light

**So I don't usually do this, but there have been so many wonderful reviews and comments that I feel compelled to take a second and thank all of you here on FanFiction that have taken an interest in this story. Everyone's been so supportive, and it's keeping me motivated to write more. I honestly could not ask for more engaged readers, so - thank you.**

**-Felicia**

* * *

Cloudy voices. Almost like they were coming from a tunnel. Dean was struggling to make sense of the words he was hearing, tuning in and out while being damn well sure he kept his body still. He had to know exactly where he was, and exactly what the hell he was dealing with.

"Crowley's pleased, Alan. He wants us to bring them up in about five minutes." Demons. Had to be. It didn't make sense for them to be anything else. By the sound of it, by the measure of footsteps, there were at least two of these bitches in charge of standing guard of him and Sammy. One of them was female, the other must be male. Dean's eyes clenched with the amount of concentration it was taking to listen in on the conversation without groaning from bodily pain.

"You'd think," the female laughed, "That these two would be more…I don't know, fun, all things considered. We've heard so much about them. And the pretty one," breath was at his face, lips close to his ear, "Mmm, the pretty one's been to Hell and came back. I just expected so much more, after what Alastair was saying." _Don't move_, the hunter had to tell himself, over and over again_, move and you're dead, Dean. Move and you're dead. Theses bitches don't matter_. _Just come up with a plan to get Sammy out of here. _Dean had to know, had to see what was going on. Slowly, he allowed one of his eyes to open – just enough to see a little bit of what was happening. The male demon – Alan – his shoulders were shrugging, as if he were uninterested in conversing. "They're just humans, Kara. Nothing special about them. I don't get why Crowley still devotes so much time to them – they were so easy to overpower."

Ouch. Well these bitches were going down. Dean waited until both demons had focused upon something besides him and Sammy before turning to look at his brother next to him. He was still out cold, no sign that he would be stirring anytime soon. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the hunter reached out and shook Sammy's arm, his other hand constricting his brother's mouth just in case.

Luckily, Sammy wasn't a complete idiot. As Sammy's eyes opened, Dean gestured with his head towards the two occupied demons. His brother nodded, acknowledging the fact they had to keep quiet as Dean released his little brother's mouth.

This was going to be difficult. Sure, Dean had done some crazy stuff in the past – hell, he'd even pulled off his fair share of miracles – but making up a brand new plan with Sammy, silently, with two of Crowley's demons already in the room? They were doomed to fail before they began. But he had to try, for Sammy, for Cas, who was still safe at the motel and expecting them to return triumphant.

"It's about time you boys woke up."

Shit. Dean had been so absorbed in trying to create a plan that he'd forgotten to pay attention to the demons' focus. He could see the panic building up behind Sammy's eyes, causing his own expression to harden. No. They could do this. He had to. His eyes took in every single detail of the room, drinking in the information. Knife. It was across the room. And suddenly, Dean Winchester had an idea.

"Hey bitch, it's nice to see you aga–"

The force of Kara's hand across his face was enough to cause the hunter to spit out blood; it was not enough, however, to keep the grin from spreading on Dean's face. "Thanks for that."

The female's black eyes were coming closer to his, taunting him. Alan was staying put by the door, as if he were bored. Well to hell with him if this wasn't entertaining.

"Dean –" Sam was trying to warn him to hold his tongue. Why did his older brother feel the need to be snarky with the monsters that held them captive?

Shooting his younger brother a look, his eyes focused on the knife's location for a split second. That was all he could manage without drawing more attention to the plan. While spitting out just a tad bit more blood, the grin on Dean's face widened before he turned back to face the demon bitch. "So how does it feel to be bossed around by Crowley? I here he's done some pretty unique things with hell – I hear he doesn't even like you guys, and is just using you to do his dirty work. How does it feel to know your king doesn't –"

"Shut up!" Another hard hit to the face, on the other side this time. Dean's breathing was picking up, becoming ragged enough to attract Alan's attention.

"Don't pay attention to the toys Kara, they're just trying to work you up." Alan was still facing the hallway, unperturbed by the chaos inside the small room. Dean kept his eyes locked upon Kara's, a smile still lingering.

"You going to let him boss you around like that?"

Another blow to the face, harder this time, followed by another two in immediate succession of each other. His skin was bruising quickly, breaking open as his teeth scraped along the insides of his mouth. The older hunter found himself swallowing the copper-tasting liquid that the demon's blows had prompted. After all these years of getting the shit kicked out of him, he found it still was not a pleasant experience. And after all the blood he'd swallowed down due to these beatings, the taste still inspired small bouts of nausea.

A demon's scream is what brought Kara out of her trance; Sammy was standing behind Alan, the knife buried deep into the demon's back. The flicker of gold light that shocked through the body before it crumpled earned a dry laugh from the older Winchester. "Looks like you should have listened to him after all."

"You _bastard_ –" She leaned forward, intent on choking him, he guessed. Another mistake on the bitch's part. As she leaned forward, the knife sunk into her chest, having been skidded to Dean across the floor during her idiotic staring contest with him. Her mouth opened, a helpless gurgle drawn from her as he twisted the knife deeper into her chest, holding it there until she finally fell limp. These two, Dean concluded, were definitely not Crolwey's brightest.

Dean pulled the knife out, wiping it off on his shirt before standing.

"You look like hell, Dean."

The younger Winchester was appraising him, looking at his battered face with a worried look. Blood was smeared all over his skin, cuts lining his fast-bruising flesh. Sam could already make out the exact places Kara had punched him – that demon had some strength.

"Don't sugarcoat it Sammy, I'm worried you'll hurt my feelings." A wink, and Dean was twirling the knife carelessly in his hands. "We've got to find Crowley. Bastard's got to be here if they were going to take us to him." He glanced around, picking up anything at all that could be used as a weapon. "I'm getting tired," he grunted, "Of these damn demons taking all of our weapons. Replacing them ain't cheap."

"I think we have worse problems, Dean."

Sam's face had reddened, his ears straining to hear some sound far off in the distance. Oh god, oh god this was not good. "Sammy?" Dean stepped forward, his arm outstretched. "Sammy! What's wro –"

"Shh Dean! Listen!"

Irritated, and a tad bit annoyed by the vague direction, the hunter dropped his hand from his brother's shoulder. What the hell was this kid going on abo–

And he heard it then. The unmistakable howl, the growling, the running. Hearing it made Dean's blood run cold, his eyes going dark with worry.

"Hellhounds."

There was no doubt about it. And they were coming closer. Dean was frozen, his one fear paralyzing him and keeping him cemented to his current spot on the floor.

"Dean!" He was being shaken, no telling how long he had been frozen for. "We've got to find Crowley. Let's go!" Sam grabbed his brother's arm, forcing him to move, shaking Dean from his fear as they bolted from the room.

Demons were everywhere – but none of them, not a single one, approached them. In fact, they were all smiling. Dean's eyebrows raised and he leaned into Sam, whispering, "Anything about this seem _off _to you?" He'd paused to look at them all, holding out his arms. "Come on, who wants a piece of this?" His voice was rising to a yell, blood still caught in his throat.

"Dean! We don't have time, _move_!" Sammy was pulling him again, and the brothers took off running just as the growling got louder. Up and up they went, guessing that wherever Crowley was – it would be on the top floor. He was, Dean remembered, an extravagant kind of man.

The demons were allowing them to climb up the stairs. _Allowing _them to get to Crowley. Something about this was most definitely not right. Louder growling. Scratches on the wall. Dean's pace quickened, his feet carrying him as fast as he could go until –

A burst of bright white light. Him and Sam both stopped, outside of the door, exchanging only a quick glance before kicking it open.

And Dean wished he never had.

"Cas?"

The bright light – grace, Dean assumed – was coming from the angel himself, getting brighter and brighter before finally dimming. The angel was sinking, and, forgetting about the Hellhounds, not even noticing Crowley in the room, Dean darted to Cas' side, sinking to his knees in order to stop the angel from falling.

"Cas! What the hell? We told you to wait in the motel!" It was just like Cas to try and come save them. Hell, he probably tried to smite Crowley and burnt himself out. "Cas, c'mon buddy, look at me."

While Dean shook the angel, trying to get a response out of him, Sam turned his attention to the other occupant of the room. "What did you do, Crowley?"

But the King of Hell was chuckling, serenely, sipping from a glass of whiskey. "I merely accepted an offer. No foul play this time, boys."

Frantic green eyes desperately tried to catch the attention of Cas' weary blue ones. He'd been paying no attention to Crowley's words, and heard nothing the demon was saying. What was being said did not matter, not in this moment. Not to Dean. "Look at me!" Dean demanded, pulling up the angel's face and forcing their eyes to meet. "Get up," he placed an arm around him, helping the angel off of the floor, allowing him to lean on his own body for support. "C'mon Cas, stay with it. We need you."

"It won't do him very much good to stand, mate. The hounds'll just knock him back off his feet." Crowley grinned, looking towards the door. "Ah, speaking of. They're almost here."

Cas looked up, into Dean's face, into the desperate green eyes that seemed to be pleading with him. He wished there was something, anything he could say to make the situation better. But Castiel still believed that this was for the best. "You have to go, Dean. Now." Cas was pulling back, steadying himself on Crowley's desk as his breathing became more and more labored with the effort.

Confusion marred Dean's expression. What was he saying? Was this angel completely nuts? Did someone drug him?

"Dean." Sam's face was grave, his eyes somber as he appraised the scratches appearing on the door. "I think he made a deal."

Impossible, Dean's mind was racing, trying to place the pieces together in any other way, impossible. Angels can't make deals with demons. _Cas_ can't make deals with demons.

"Tell me that isn't true." He looked across from him, at the angel leaning on the desk, who refused to meet his eyes. "Tell me that isn't true!" His voice was rising as the growling got louder, a new-found mist clouding his vision as the deep blue eyes finally collided with his gaze. "_No_," he breathed out, his legs taking a hasty step forward. "Don't you tell me that. Don't you do this."

"Too late, mate."

Dean's eyes never left Cas' as the hounds pounced, knocking the angel to the ground. "No!" He was screaming, yelling for the angel to get up, to smite them. Yelling for Crowley to stop, to call them off.

"Dammit Crowley, give him back his soul!" Dean was stepping closer, but Sammy's arms were around him in an instant, holding him back as Cas' flesh was ripped from him by the invisible monsters. Cas made no sounds, instead clenching his face tight, his chest turning into ribbons, blood pooling on the floor. The blue eyes opened, once more, the life flickering, dimming right before Dean's own eyes as he fought to get out of Sammy's grip. "No!" He broke from his younger brother's arms and dropped, kneeling down to pick up the head of the angel. "No, no, Cas, no, god_dammit _what did you do?" His hands were busy, trying to keep the blood inside what was left of the angel's chest. But it was hopeless – an injury of this magnitude – "Sammy, get a towel, something, anything!"

It hadn't even been a full minute, but all the hounds had disappeared.

His brother took off, and Dean pulled Cas closer, wiping blood from his mouth so that he could breathe easier.

Those blue eyes that Dean had come to know so well were misting, pooling with liquid. He had to be in pain. So much pain. But he would make it okay, he would make Cas better, like Cas had done for him so many times before.

"Dean." The angel, somehow, had managed to suck in enough air to speak, blinking so weakly that Dean wanted to shush him. Castiel opened his mouth, as if to say something else, but instead – he just looked at Dean's face, and used every minuscule bit of life left in him to smile.

And then that spark, that light, that overwhelming blue hue in Cas' eyes that made him so strikingly _Cas _– It faded, leaving only the reflection of Dean's own mortification staring right back at him.

"Well, I think it's safe to say that Cas has left the building! Well, I must say, this has been bloody good fun. Expect to hear nothing more from my demons or myself ever again. You Winchesters are off my radar. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep downstairs." Crowley's voice sounded so distant, so far off that Dean barely paid it any attention. His focus was still on the angel's eyes.

"You stupid, _stupid _son of a bitch."

Dean was breathing out, shallowly, his hands on either side of the angel's face. Several times, he opened his mouth, words failing him. His voice was breaking in his throat, but he'd be damned if he didn't say something. Nothing sentimental was coming to him. No goodbyes, no expressions of love, just questions. So many damn questions he wanted to ask, and they'd never again be answered.

"Cas," he whispered, longing for the angel to answer, not aware that Sam Winchester was standing in the doorway, the useless damned towel in his hand, silently watching the scene before him.

"What am I supposed to do?"


	7. An Appointment Downstairs

_**I will take the time to warn you now that this chapter contains graphic violence. If you're squeamish or against this kind of thing, then do not proceed. Thank you.**_

* * *

Castiel had been right. Seeing Dean's face – seeing the anger, the hopelessness, the disbelief – it _had _been the worst part.

The man had to admit that it was far quicker than he had ever expected. His flesh was torn from him by the hounds in forty nine point three five seconds. Four point nine seconds after the hounds disappeared, Dean was above him, speaking with him, pleading with him. He remembered not being able to think of anything comforting to say – he remembered smiling. He wanted the man to go on fighting, to go on being the hunter the angel knew he was. In Castiel's opinion, this was the best case scenario – his being able to do penance while doing Dean a service. Castiel was only getting what he deserved, after all.

It was blurry after that. Hardly any of his grace had been left, most of it released right after sealing his and Crowley's deal. That was part of it, of course – he was nearly human now. Things were still blurring before the angel's eyes, still going black and white until the blue orbs were forced to close, blinded by light, enveloped by heat –

Something was _inside _of him. Castiel's sides, his shoulders, his wrists and ankles – all of them were on fire, burning with a sensation he could not accurately describe. Something sharp was carving its way into the angel's pale skin, stretching it until the objects in question were poking through the other sides of their intended targets. Hooks, he realized, his breathing picking up only a fraction as he dared to opened his eyes again, determined despite the circumstances to analyze his surroundings.

Hell was exactly how Castiel remembered it. The darkness, the echoes of screaming, the blood; all of it was still here, he knew. Nothing had changed except that he was soon to become one of those helpless souls being tortured. Now he was suspended in the air, the entirety of his weight supported by the hooks pulling him in opposite directions. _Stay still, Castiel. Stay still. _He did not know for how long he had been staying still, his face expressionless throughout all the stretching. But his limbs were fighting the urge to attempt to break free, fighting because this is what he deserved. This was penance. After staying still for what felt like an eternity, Castiel's mouth finally fell open, blood having pooled involuntarily in his throat as the hooks cut deeper into him. _No, _he thought, not wanting to move, not wanting to give in to the creeping agony threatening to claim him, to take over his senses. But the blood was dripping down his chin, landing in the abyss below him with a small breath halting behind his teeth. He'd failed. And now he was certain something else was to begin.

And he was right.

He could smell it before feeling it. Against the metal, the scent was almost metallic as it mixed with blood, roasting delicate flesh as the flames danced across his chest, moving upwards with slow precision. Slow precision, because he was certain it was taking years for the flames to make their way up. The body tissue was melting fast, blackening the veins and frying the nerves as the beastly inferno scorched every inch of skin, every millimeter of health. The hooks were pulling at him again, still in separate directions, finally causing the thus-far silent Castiel to groan, his head tilting upwards as the scorching blaze reached his face at long last, marring his cheeks and erupting back out through his eyes.

"Castiel."

And the fire was gone, though the pulling sensation of the hooks remained. Dean had been right – the way one's body was healed in hell _was _like magic. But the familiar voice was not a welcomed one.

"Crowley." The demon was very, very close, but the angel made no move to try and escape. It would be a waste of energy and time – for no matter what he did, he would always end up back on the rack. His eyes lingered on the King of Hell, who was brandishing a knife with a smile that knotted even Castiel's stomach.

"You sold me out on _Purgatory, _mate. And you have no idea," the demon was whispering, his mouth centimeters from the angel's, "How long I've wanted to do this."

"Crowl –"

And the knife was twisting its way into Castiel's hip, piercing straight through the bone, causing the angel's body to bend backwards. More pulling from the hooks – and he knew his limbs, as they stretched, were close to being torn clean off. A moan, louder than his last pained utterance, and far less controlled, was squeezed out of him.

"Fucking _Purgatory._" Inside the bone of his hip, the knife was contorting, scraping at the marrow and tearing it from its natural position. Panting now. No longer was Castiel's breathing controlled, having fallen into a pattern that was nothing short of erratic. A hand was on his chin, forcing him to face the blackened eyes of Crowley, forcing him to see what was reflected in them.

Balthazar.

"_No,_" Castiel ground out, surprised by the tone of his own voice. It was not rich, not full – but a breathy, anguished sound, brought out by pure desperation.

"That is not real," he said aloud, if only to ease his own demented fears, keeping his eyes on Crowley's. He'd taken on the form of Balthazar, but the angel was not an idiot. He knew it was still Crowley, wanting to torture him in a different sort of way. Psychological torture was always the most efficient.

"I'm afraid it's all too real, Cas-y. _You_ killed me." And it was Balthazar's voice that taunted him, burning him to the core as the blade braided itself through the other side of his hipbone.

"You're…not…Balthazar," he grimaced, blood bubbling its way to the surface, overflowing as he gasped at the intrusion of another knife in his skin. His stomach, this time, was the recipient of the blow.

"You sure about that?"

And the angel looked up, into the eyes of the King of Hell, seeing only the gaze of his fallen brother.

"I'm _sor –_"

"Sorry does not cut it, brother."

Fire again – only in his stomach – rapid, unyielding, tiny bursts of flame. The angel fell into a fit of convulsions, desperately trying to put out the fire, desperately trying to make it all stop. He knew, in his right mind, tucked safely away, that this was not Balthazar. But the memories of the murder prompted more violent spasms, the knife's cuts getting deeper and deeper until there was hardly anything left. And the fire never went out – it lingered in his stomach, settling there, nestling there, until Castiel cried out, screaming, louder than he ever had before as a knife drove through his tongue.

Castiel was an angel – and had never felt pain like this.

He could not open his eyes and face Crowley, who still wore Balthazar's face. He could not open his eyes and see himself, thrashing, pulling against the hooks like a madman, hysterically hoping for this to stop, but believing in his heart – in his developing human soul – that he did not deserve for it to.

"Look at me, brother."

Everything Castiel had learned over his many years of life warned him against opening his eyes. But the voice – that pleading _voice – _of Balthazar's made Castiel's glazed over blue eyes reveal themselves, Crowley finally transforming back into himself.

"And this mate," he was laughing, wiping blood off of the knife that had – merely moments ago – been buried inside Castiel's tongue, "Is only the beginning."

Castiel could hardly breathe, but forced his head to stay raised, not wanting to give Crowley any extra satisfaction. But the demon wasn't buying it, and instead snapped his fingers, and the fire in his stomach worsened and prompted another fit of voiced torment.

"Welcome to forever."

He was gone, though the flames remained. Something within the angel was cracking, what was left of his grace having nearly shattered. But no; no, he had to keep going. Had to fight. His resolve kept him silent again, even as the flames started their old patterns, moving so slowly the angel was certain death was possible more than once. And this time, as the flames reached his cheeks, erupting through his eyes, Castiel felt his breath hiss out through the blood, as it started all over again, "Dean."


	8. Prayers Unanswered

_Dear Castiel – you stupid son of a bitch – that crap you pulled wasn't funny. Angels can't go to hell, man. So get back down here._

_Dear Castiel, stop being a bastard and stop by. We have questions. We still have work to do, y'know? Sealing the gates of hell and all that bullshit. Could ah – could use your help._

_Dear Castiel, angel who art in heaven – get your feathery ass back down here. Heaven can kiss my ass. Sammy and I – we're worried._

_Cas – buddy – where are you? It's been weeks, man. Are you really in hell, Cas? Did you really sell your soul? C'mon man, this isn't funny._

_Cas – It's been two and a half months. Can't you hear me?_

* * *

They were almost out of whiskey.

Every day was the same now, both Winchesters flipping through books, talking with other hunters, researching online. Dean was looking for anything – anything at all – that could pull a soul out of hell. And so far, the brothers had only found the answer to be angels. Well that was a lot of fucking help.

The eldest Winchester was growing impatient, his research becoming more devout every night. He would sit up in the dark, as his younger brother slept, and stare at the books he'd found in the day until the words blurred together, prompting more caffeine instead of sleep. Dark shadows started to form; and at first, they went unnoticed. If only he had taken Cas more seriously – if only he had had the fucking sense to _know _the angel was going to do something that _stupid._

Bottle after bottle disappeared from the cabinets, the warm liquid soothing the emptiness Dean's mistakes had caused. Whiskey was for long nights. Beer was for the mornings.

Another long night had passed, slowly, the last bottle of whiskey going with it.

"Dean." Sammy's voice was grating against Dean's aching head, the empty bottle falling to the floor as Dean rolled over. The crash was not loud at all – but loud enough to prompt a groan from the older hunter, who was pulling covers over his head. "Go away, Sammy."

Of course he never did. Sam's hand yanked the blanket away, shoving a bottle of water in his face. "We're trying Dean, but you can't keep doing this to yourself. You should –"

"We've been over this Sammy. No chick flick moments. I'm fine." As if to prove his point, Dean sat up with a grimace, taking the water offered and sipping. It did feel good, anyway. It helped soothe his screaming throat.

"Good." Sam paused, taking a small mental note of his brother's current state. Dean didn't look fine at all. Actually, Dean looked anything but fine. Sam knew his brother hardly slept anymore, but he couldn't keep trying to force Dean to help himself. It was only going to get more irritating for the both of them, and it was the last thing they needed.

The older hunter had finished the water, and was now staring at his younger brother with an expectant look. "Well," Sammy went on after clearing his throat, "I found a case in Utah. Some girls found dead in the woods – with marks on their necks. Definitely our kind of thing, Dean." The sentence had hardly left his lips before Dean was grabbing for the paper, glancing over the article. Yep. Definitely vampires.

"Let another hunter take care of it Sammy. We're just a little busy, if you haven't noticed." Dean glanced back up from the paper, eyes narrowing with unhidden suspicion. "And since when do you look for hunts anyway, Sammy? I thought you were all gung-ho about quitting as soon as we shut the gates. Actually – hell, you didn't even want to help shut the gates. Wanted to get back home to Amelia or whatever her –"

"Stop it, Dean. I told you. There was a girl. Then there wasn't. This is the end of that discussion."

The tension was radiating off the both of them, the weeks that had passed doing nothing for their fighting. Dean was still pissed that Sammy hadn't even bothered to look for him in Purgatory.

Sam was pissed because Dean wouldn't understand just how badly he wanted to be normal.

"Anyway." It was the younger brother who gave in first, not willing to piss Dean off first thing in the morning, "I thought it would be a nice break from searching for Cas." A look flashed across the older brother's face, and Sam knew he would try to interrupt. "No. He's gone, Dean. We've been looking for answers for weeks now, and the only thing we've found out is that an angel is the only thing that can bring someone back. We're not angels, Dean. And no offense man, but it's not like Cas left Heaven in good standing. None of the angels up there are going to be willing to put out their necks for him. We don't even know any other angels – the ones that would have helped are all dead or missing."

The muscle in Dean's jaw clenched, the knuckles of his fists going completely white. "Is that what you told yourself when _I_ went missing Sammy?" He stood, grabbing the empty bottle from the floor. "That no one was willing to help, so it wasn't worth trying? Is that what people are worth to you?" Dean's voice went a tad bit higher in pitch as he continued, his face contorting, " – 'Oh, I want to be normal, so might as well give up! Hell, my asshole older brother's gone – finally! Now I can go to school and get my degree and get married and not worry about him!' – " His breathing was picking up, and his arms had raised above his head out of desperation. The older Winchester had to tell himself to calm down, taking a moment to continue. "Is that what I'm worth to you, Sammy? Is that what Cas is worth to you?" Dean raised his face to look up into his brother's, wanting to know how he could justify not looking for someone who they had considered, for so many years, to be a friend.

Sam couldn't answer. He looked away, opening his mouth, but having no words that would be what Dean wanted to hear. With a shake of his head, the younger Winchester left the room, needing his own time to clear his head.

Dean watched him go, the fire in his eyes fading, giving way to that blank, numb look he wore every time nobody else was around. His hands crumpled the news article Sammy had handed to him, tossing it across the room with an exasperated grunt. The hunter wanted to hit something. Dean wanted, so badly, for everything to be over. He was tired – so tired – and so _sick_ of trying to get through to a brother who so clearly did not want to be doing this.

Dean's calloused hands dragged along his own cheeks, moving up to drag through his hair. Nothing in his life had ever been simple, but things were so much more difficult when he had absolutely no one to go to for help. His eyes flickered down to the empty bottle, which had clattered to the floor and shattered without his knowledge while he'd exploded at Sammy.

Beyond frustrated, the hunter made his way to the kitchen, intent on finding something to pick up the glass with. Paper towels? That would have to do. His fingers picked up each piece one by one, carefully, making sure to get everything up off of the carpet. They needed to keep their fucking motel deposit this time.

The glass was gone, and it was time to hit the books. No, he would not be going on a damn hunt when Cas could be burning in hell. Plucking up a pen from the small dining room table, the hunter placed it between his teeth, keeping it safe until he needed it to underline or highlight important information regarding souls in the Pit.

Hours went by, but Dean's eyes never left the books. He raised himself up from the chair only to go back to the cabinets. His stomach panged for food, but he was only searching for –

He pulled out the first bottle that felt like it could be what he was looking for. Empty. Empties everywhere.

They were out of whiskey.

* * *

Something burning. Something sharp digging into his side, poking, prodding, and twisting until a cry was forced from his lips, which had been singed to the point there was hardly any skin left. Castiel had been in the Pit for many decades; yet the angel could see that it was still a victory for Crowley to make him voice the pain he was feeling on the Rack.

"You know," Crowley was whispering as Castiel's flesh was torn from him, knives moving of their own accord, "You deserve this, right?"

An unintelligible noise came from Castiel's gut, his throat constricting around the corrosive acid Crowley had poured down it. But his head was aching – that little piece of grace he was holding onto burning inside his mind. Castiel had not felt this burning in years - so why would he be feeling it now?

Prayers?

_God – if you're out there – you don't let angels stay in hell, right? I mean that's – it just doesn't make sense, man. I mean fuc – sorry. Just – you can save him, right?_

_Hello? God! Angels! Come on bastards, answer me! Can't anyone in Heaven hear me? Can't any one of you feathery, winged sons of bitches help? _

_Cas is one of you, dammit! He's your fucking family! So go drag your lazy asses down there and bring him back! _

_What am I supposed to do? I need a sign – anything. Please. Just tell me what to do._

_God? Angels – Cas?_

_I'm afraid I might kill myself, too._

The angel's vivid blue eyes were alight with sadness as his head stopped aching, the prayers fading fast. He could tell they were not recent - probably weeks, maybe even months old. Before he could spend any more time thinking about it, the burning was gone. The pain of his ribs puncturing his lungs was forcing him to drop the grace's focus. No more prayers, just Crowley – who was still waiting, expectantly, for Castiel's reply.

"I know."


	9. Reckless

Every angel, no matter what Garrison they belonged to, could feel it. More powerful than any simple earthquake, heaven rocked, the ground beneath the angel's feet vibrating with such force that all arguments, all administrative offices, stilled. None of them dared speak, dared to utter a word. Nothing alive was capable of such mighty power; and after a moment of stillness, the angels were whispering, all asking for answers regarding what had caused such a disturbance to heaven itself.

"Quiet, all of you! Find the problem!" Naomi was speaking quietly, but the angels – having hardly moved since the disruption – could hear her perfectly. "Now! I don't care what you are supposed to be doing in your Garrisons, I expect all of you to drop it." The soft flutter of wings was the only sound after Naomi's command. "I'll watch from above." Her eyes regarded the empty space in front of her before taking her place back in the administrative offices. Nothing alive was capable of such power – so what had come back from the dead?

* * *

Off the coast of California, in an area desolate and abandoned, a large crack had appeared in the cement, as if a meteorite had collided with the earth. In this crack, wedged between bits of graphite and concrete, a body was laying spread eagle, but completely stock still. The only light illuminating the area was borrowed from the moon and stars – no streetlights existed, as no cars had ventured on this road for many, many years. There was no movement, no noise – no disturbances. Everything in the vicinity of this crater was still; no animal dared get close to it.

Fingers twitching. It was the first sign of life from the body in the cracked gap of earth. The joints popped with the minuscule movement, as if the male body had been out of use for years. More pops – several crunches and cracks – and finally, a breath. Shallow at first – a pant, a gasp, a struggle for the precious oxygen – then deeper, more concentrated, more of an appreciation for the air, instead of a struggle for it. The air was moving freely through the man now, the abdomen pulsing up and down while the oxygen filled the lungs. So easy, so graceful – like the man was not breathing at all – like the air just fell into his lungs, without any actual effort. Several minutes passed, ticking by slowly, like time did not matter. The man just breathed, flexing the body's muscles as if to check if every single part of it was working. More minutes, and then –

A pair of brilliant, yellow-green eyes tore open, engulfed by white light the second the lids had fluttered up. There was no sound, no other movement, as the white faded. The man was concentrating now, creases appearing on the body's forehead as if engaged in deep thought. A whisper blew through the wind, surrounding the figure – and the man's eyes, almost fearful now, went wide as he listened. The whispers went on, more soothing, until the yellow-green eyes darkened with understanding. A smirk took the place of fear, spreading across the man's face as the whispering disappeared, replaced only with silence. Rapid movements took the man into a standing position, until he was looking around, the dim glow of stars reflected in the man's irises.

"Thank you, Father." Another whisper, the snap of fingers, and a sound like wings – and the man was gone, taking all evidence of the crater with him.

* * *

_Cas man, I haven't given up yet. I'm still fighting. I won't let you down._

_Dear Cas, I promise I won't fail you. I'll find a way to get you out if it fucking kills me._

_Cas – buddy –, I know Hell, and it ain't pretty. You're an angel, man. Can't you get yourself out?_

_Cas? – I – God? Man, I know you're missing and all…but…please, God, I don't know what to do. _

_Dear God – I need some help. _

The goddamned bone wouldn't break. "Dammit!" Dean's machete definitely needed some sharpening – it took him far too many tries to cut through the neck, and decapitation was _not _supposed to be like some kind of chore. "Finally," he was grumbling by the time the head was completely detached, grabbing for the cloth in his pocket he used for wiping off his blades.

"Nice, Dean." Sammy was behind him, one hand on his shoulder. But as Dean turned to face his brother, there was that look in his face again – that concerned look that made Dean's stomach knot with an uncomfortable sort of anger. "I'm fine Sammy," he ground out the words, through his teeth, before shrugging off Sam's hand.

"Dean –" The younger brother had to pause, thinking of the best way to word the problem, without offending anyone. "You know you're getting reckless." Sam was cleaning off his own blade, before wiping streaks of blood from his cheek. "We've been hunting these vamps for weeks now, and you decide to use yourself as bait?" He should be angry – should tear Dean apart for disappearing from their shared motel room in the middle of the night. Sam had followed him, of course. Luckily, he hadn't woken up much later and already knew that he would be here. When he showed up, three vampires were surrounding his brother, and the only reason they'd won the fight was due to Sam showing up and distracting them long enough for Dean to attack again.

Sam had planned, ever since leaving the motel, on screaming at him, on berating him with questions, asking him why the _hell _he thought it was okay to go out alone.

But the look in his brother's face when Sam arrived, the flash of sadness in his eyes before he hardened himself again to kill the vampires– it had halted Sam's prior plan, and he was now left with trying to get Dean to talk about what he was feeling. And that was always the hardest part.

"Dean, I just wish you hadn't left by yourself." The older Winchester's back stiffened, but the younger hunter continued on, though his tone was significantly softer. "We knew this nest was strong, we could have – should have gone in together." Sam took a step forward again, stopping just short of being able to reach out to touch him. "You're my brother. You can't just go barging in on things like this, it's not safe. I know you can take care of yourself, but three on one? It's stupid Dean, you know that." This time, Sam waited for Dean to say something – anything. But there was only silence, and Dean wasn't even meeting his eyes. Clearing his throat, Sam reached out to touch his shoulder again, squeezing it. "What's up with you, man? Why'd you leave?"

Dean's eyes were focused on the wall, as if looking for something that was not there – seeing something that was not there. Sam was about to interrupt when Dean spoke, his voice quiet, tentative – like he was afraid to get the words out.

"Cas has been in hell for six months, Sam."

Dean watched the surprise flicker across Sammy's face, and a muscle in his own jaw ticked in response. The fuck was the kid so surprised about?

"This is about Cas?"

Well to hell with talking about it then, if his brother couldn't even understand this. "Never mind Sammy, forget about it. Let's just go find something else to kill." Dean turned, machete slung over his shoulder as he headed back to his baby. The Impala was always a happy sight – and the newly purchased alcohol in the front seat would be a treat for when they got back to the motel. Sammy didn't try to talk to him again, which was good. At least he'd get some peace from the failed chick flick moments. As soon as his little brother was in the car, Dean was turning the wheel, face stony as he eyed the road. The ACDC blasting from the speakers was not enough to keep him in the present, and was not enough to make him glad to be here. He'd rather be killing something. He'd rather be reading about how to get souls out of the Pit. He'd rather be telling Cas he was an idiot for not knowing how to do things, or telling him how to be human, or laughing at him for not knowing how to flirt or talk on a cell phone.

The damned son of a bitch.

Dean's knuckles were white as they crushed the wheel, the abuse of his baby going unnoticed even to him. Nothing was right about this – nothing was okay. Hell, he knew that. He knew he wasn't okay.

He just didn't care.

_Please God, _he was praying again, like he did every day, like he did every time he missed that stupid, ridiculous angel in the trench coat. _S__end help._

There was a flash of white light – the screeching of the Impala's breaks – Sam yelling for Dean, glass shards flying as the windshield shattered.

And as the light faded, Dean was staring into a pair of yellow-green eyes, which were alight with snarky humor.

"Daddy sent me to answer your prayers, kiddo."


	10. I Fucking Promise

**I take the time now to give yet another graphic violence warning. From here on out, I will not warn or caution you against violence. Read this story at your own discretion - it is rated M for a reason. I will also take the time to say thanks again, for everything. You readers are honestly quite lovely.**

**-Felicia.**

* * *

Castiel had never begged, never pleaded, never wanted anything more than he did down in Hell, in the deepest part of the Pit. His body was broken over and over again, until it was reduced to nothing by his torturer. Sometimes it was Crowley – and sometimes, though rarely, it was one of Alastair's former students. Those were the good days, he knew. The days where the torturer would not look like Balthazar or Anna. They would look like themselves; twisted, demonic, and uglier than Castiel could ever put into words. For years, Castiel's silence had tormented Crowley. Crowley's one goal, the angel knew, was to get him to completely fall, to break – in every sense of the word possible. Still, the angel was almost always silent, the only sounds that ever escaped him broken fragments of Dean Winchester's name. Those utterances were reactions to his prayers – apologies for not being able to answer, for not being able to help him, to protect him.

Around the time Castiel started saying Dean's name, forty years in, Crowley formulated a new plan. The angel was strong, the King of Hell knew, but there was one image that would certainly get the grace-filled idiot to beg. After testing it out, he'd found that he had been so completely right. Crowley's reward for his brilliance – twenty straight years of watching the angel break down completely, his mind cracking around false memories and hallucinations. These hallucinations, these visions – fake implants of reality – they were always paired with incomprehensible physical pain just for the hell of it. The results, at first, had been astounding. Now they were dreadfully amusing. Psychological torture, as he'd told Castiel before, was always the best kind.

"Please_,_" Castiel's voice was distorted, the blood in his mouth making the words sound muddled. "_Please,_" he uttered again, only to be rewarded with that cold, hollow laugh that the angel had been subjected to for far too long. It was that laugh that dug into him far more than any blade ever could. It was that sinister, empty chuckle that made the small amount of blood remaining in Castiel's body run cold. The sound echoed for a moment, hammering in his ears until the man stepped closer to him, grabbing onto his chin, forcing his face to be level with the torturer's. Castiel's eyes reluctantly raised up from the floor, the blue jewels of moisture glistening with a pain so far beyond physical torment. "_Stop._" He was not begging, was not pleading for himself. The knives in his arm, the wires lining his veins – wires filled with burning acid –, the fire, the grinding of his bones against saws, the torn muscles, flayed skin – none of it mattered. Half of his body was burning and bleeding on the floor, and still, Castiel was not begging for himself. Castiel was begging for those eyes staring back at him, almost black, to lighten. He was begging for those eyes, near inhuman, to pool once again with the loyal, unending green that he had come to love, to know, and to cherish so deeply. "This isn't you –"

"–I thought we'd gotten past this, Cas." And the voice burned the angel too, more so than the lighted match now burning harshly into his cheek. "I thought we'd gotten past you denying this." A syringe of acid, plunged coldly, without feeling or hesitation, into the angel's neck. "This is not _you –_," Castiel was trying to breathe, trying to force the blood out of his mouth before he choked, but the acid was too much, and it burned, and oh Holy Father it burned, and Castiel's eyes closed before he screamed, writhing on the rack as the hooks pulled what was left of his skin apart.

"_Please._" Begging, begging again, as he did every day for twenty years, trying to save the man in front of him. "You have to stop. You have to stop, I have to save you – I made a deal, it is impossible – they _promised_ –" His voice was breaking, only because of the laughing. The laughing was always the worst, for the angel. The laughing hurt so much more than the silence.

"Save me?" The hand on the angel's chin tightened, forcing his eyes open again. "You're an idiot, you know that? Demons never keep their promises. Plus," and the man's hand left Castiel's chin, reaching instead for another blade – a razor this time. "I like this." A slice into what was left of his face – Castiel was wincing as it tore through the muscle, puncturing the bones. "I like tearing people apart. You were too late in trying to save me. You didn't get here fast enough, Cas. You failed."

Somewhere deep inside Castiel's mind, he knew that his current situation was impossible. There was no way on earth Crowley could have broken their deal. There was no way this man could be standing in front of him now, carving into his skin like it was nothing, smiling as he did so. There was no way those eyes could be this dead.

Not again.

"This is me, man. All me." And those lips – those lips, which Castiel had always admired in life, covered now with spattered blood – were at Castiel's neck, breathing warm air out through his teeth. "Nobody's coming for you, man." And the razor was at Castiel's lips, slicing so slowly that it made the angel cringe. The cutting was always slow, never fast enough. They liked to draw it out. Always.

"I did it for you," Castiel was painfully breathing out, his eyes closing, unable to look into those eyes any longer as his head fell into the man's free hand. The carving continued, but he had to go on, had to get the words out, even though his lips were practically gone, and his mouth was flooded with blood. "You were supposed to be safe."

And that laugh – that laugh again, those lips so close – that blade still carving – it was the only thing that could prompt the familiar fire in Castiel's chest, the generation of a human soul speeding along, taking more and more of the angel's grace with it. Castiel was so close to being fully human, the soul nearly generated completely. The process was, as always, sped up by the tears that pooled in his own blue eyes – a sensation he had never truly had on earth. The grace was being torn from him, tortured out of him as every day went by, so _slowly, _the torment never ending. _It's not real, Castiel. Keep fighting. He needs you. _No matter how many times he repeated the thoughts to himself, he had to believe, had to know that there was something worth trying for. It was getting harder and harder with every year, however, to look into that face – that face, those eyes –

"_Please – _you can't_–_"

But the angel could not continue, as his insides burned. No; the angel would not continue, because for twenty long, agonizing years – Dean had never listened. And that was not about to change.

* * *

"Man, how are you even – how are you even alive?" Sam was sitting across from the grinning man, his voice a mix of urgency and curiosity. Dean, too shocked to speak, was simply staring, waiting for the answer himself as the person they were interrogating simply opened up another candy bar.

"Well kiddo," The archangel was smiling wider, chocolate specs sticking to his cheeks, "Like I said. Woke up on the coast of California, got some orders from the boss, heard your brother's prayers – and bam, here I am."

"But it can't be that simple." Dean's tone was far more cutting than Sam's – demanding, rather than sympathetic. "You can't tell me that you just poofed back up onto the fucking earth, Gabriel. People – that just doesn't happen, man."

"Not usually, no. But your buddy Cas did it a couple times, remember?"

The mention of Cas struck a chord with the hunter, who immediately tensed, sitting up in his chair. The motel room was quiet for a moment, before Sam pressed on.

"Cas is – well, he's –"

"On the rack in Hell." Gabriel finished the sentence for him, biting off another piece of his chocolate bar. "I already told you two knuckleheads that I _know. _I'm here for a reason."

More silence. It was Sam's turn to be stunned, words failing him as his eyebrows creased with confusion.

Dean, however, had clenched his hands together. Dammit, he couldn't hope like this. He'd told himself over and over again, to move on, to find ways to save Cas without destroying himself, to stop being obsessed – but with this archangel – wouldn't it be fucking more than possible to –

"You can save Cas?" His voice wasn't recognizable, even to him. Damn these fucking feelings – always messing with his appearance. Dean cleared his throat, his hands unclenching as he leaned back in his chair. "I mean, that's what you're here for, right? To answer my prayers – to get Cas back?" His eyes flickered briefly to Sammy – whose face revealed his surprise. The younger brother had not known about Dean's secret prayers. None the less, Dean concentrated once again on Gabriel, his green eyes glimmering with a small, trivial amount of hope. He would do anything for his family – anything for Cas. And he was prepared to give Gabriel whatever he wanted – whatever he damn well needed – to get Cas out of that fucking pit.

"I will be able to," Gabe's words were cautious, his chewing slowing as he thought for a second, "Once I am restored to full power. I do not yet have all of my strength, and it would be unwise to take a trip to Hell without it. Especially," his voice hardened as Dean's posture grew impatient, "When we're talking about rescuing an angel – one of Crowley's most precious toys. Kids, I have to tell ya', this is not the smartest thing you two have ever done."

And there it was, The fucking guilt that Dean always felt, every day, for letting Cas leave the motel room. For letting Cas sulk around with his self-loathing, so familiar because it struck home. For letting Cas sell his fucking goddamned –

"Stop the pity party, princess. We have work to do. I can read your thoughts, and trust me, I'm not in the mood for the 'oh poor me' dance. I was killed by Lucifer, if you didn't notice. So the least you can do is respect what I'm saying. I am here to help – again – after all you two have done."

"C'mon man. There has to be something. It's been sixty years." The words were thick in Dean's throat, and his hand was already running its way through his hair out of frustration. "Fuck, just throw me back down and I'll get him myself."

"Dean, that's impossible, you're –"

"Wait." It was Gabriel's voice that interrupted Sam's annoyed retort. "Wait. Dean, give me your hand."

"What the fuck? Gabe, buddy, I don't think you're my ty–"

"Now." The grin was fading fast from the archangel's face, replaced with a look of sheer concentration. It was, in any case, enough to convince the hunter that the angel meant business. And so, though he wasn't at all happy about holding hands with some weird ass candy eating dude, he reached his hand across the table.

Both of the angel's hands clasped themselves around Dean's, the grace available to him searching for – and as soon as he saw it, he released the hunter's hands, with a brief, amused chuckle.

"Kiddo," he laughed again, unwrapping yet another candy bar, "Looks like you might actually be able to do just that."

Dean's eyes flashed with an unidentifiable emotion, but Sammy was the first one to speak.

"No. No, that's not possible. The only thing that can pull a soul out of Hell is an angel. And Dean's not an angel, so how can he go back down to save Cas?"

"The lore," Gabriel continued, standing from the table with a shrug of his shoulders, "Is wrong. There are two things that can pull souls from the Pit."

Dean looked up at him, voice hoarse. "Anything," he said this so quietly that he was unsure as to whether or not anyone could hear him. "We do anything to get that son of a bitch back. But – what the fuck besides an angel can pull a soul out of Hell? 'Cuz I can pretty much assure you that I am _nothing_ special."

Amusement danced through those yellow-green eyes as the archangel appraised him. "I think," the angel laughed, "We'll just cross that bridge when we come to it. Who am I to ruin the surprise?"

Dean was shaking, anticipation flooding every single one of his senses. "Great. When am I going back down?"

The question made Gabriel's face fall just a tad, his head tilting in thought. "A week should be enough time, I think. Kid," he sighed, "It's not going to be easy. Take some time to prepare. It's not Sunday school at grandma's. It's –"

"I know what it is." Dean's reply was grating. "I know what Hell is like. But that stupid son of a bitch is down there because of me, and I'll be _damned,_" the hunter was leaning forward now, his fists clenching on the table, "If I let him rot there. A week is too long. Give me a day." Dean reached for his beer, standing to leave. "I'll be ready."

He was outside quickly. Hell, he hadn't even known it was snowing. As the flakes swirled around his face, his lips touched the top of the beer, taking in the liquid as his eyes closed.

_Hey – Cas? Don't you worry, man. You won't be in pain anymore. I'm gonna' save you. You hear me, Cas? Cas? Don't you fucking give up hope. Don't you fucking dare. I'm coming to get you, you feathery son of a bitch, if it's the last thing I do. This time – I'm gonna' save _you_._

"I promise," Dean whispered into the night, the burn of the alcohol starting to kick in as unshed moisture clouded his eyes, pinpricks of unspoken memories behind his lids. "I fucking promise."


	11. Deserve to be Saved

**I'd like to wish all of my readers a very Merry Christmas (if they celebrate it), and a very Happy New Year. Basically, Happy Holidays - any Holiday! Don't forget to slow down, enjoy life, and smile. Work and stress will always be there for you when you get back, so take your time in just getting a break. Thanks guys, for everything. Your kind words mean so much.**

**-Felicia**

* * *

It had not taken the archangel long at all to get back into the swing of enjoying human pleasures. Sam Winchester sat at the small table by the window of the motel, watching as Gabriel lounged around on his brother's bed, munching on candy and flipping through several TV channels. Neither of them had spoken since Dean had left the room – and that had been hours ago. Impatience was running high for the younger brother, and research was not helping to cure it. He noticed, looking down at his laptop, that it had gone into the power saving 'screen saver' mode. Sam couldn't even guess as to when he'd stopped pretending to use it. Demonic signs were not exactly at the top of his priority list – even if finding Crowley was essential. There were far more important things on his mind – things he had to say, concerns he needed to voice – but it was difficult to know how to approach a conversation with an angel who had a very dangerous sense of humor.

"He hasn't gone out like this in a long time. Not since – not since Cas, anyway." Sam was finding his most current situation awkward, really; Gabriel, when he did look over at him, would not stop smirking. Gabriel seemed unaffected by the awkward tension. In fact, the longer the silences went on, the more candy the archangel consumed. Some things really never did change, even after death. Five minutes more of silence, and Sam was about ready to lose his mind. "So," he began again loudly, drawing Gabe from his current bite of caramel covered sweets. "I'm not letting Dean go back to Hell." The vague idea that Gabe had offered up earlier to Dean was not a good one, in Sam's opinion. Therefore, it was not a plan that Sam would ever let be put into action.

"And what," the angel was grinning again, raising an eyebrow, "are you planning on doing to stop him?" So maybe the two brothers owed their lives to Gabriel. Maybe they owed him for figuring out how to trap Lucifer, and thus avert the apocalypse. Still, the information was not enough to keep Sam's annoyed 'tut' from escaping his mouth. The arrogance was coming off the angel in waves, and it was making Sam want to punch him in the face. And he was supposed to be the 'nice' brother.

"Dean can't go back to Hell. He's not an angel, and I don't care what you say; a human cannot battle their way through Hell to retrieve a soul." Ever since Dean had even mentioned going to Hell, Sam was on high alert, ready to pounce on anything that seemed out of place. Gabe, however, looked completely at ease, joyful even. "Gabriel!"

"No need to shout kid, I can hear what you're saying. Really though, that doesn't mean I'm going to listen to you. Dean's a big boy, he can handle himself. I don't know why you're going around with your panties in a bunch over it." Gabe's voice dropped to the level of a mumble as he went on chewing his snacks, "I thought I'd taught you boys a thing or two about being able to save each other all the time."

"This isn't –," Sam was struggling to find his own voice, one of his fists clenching tightly into itself. "This isn't an average hunt, Gabriel." The words were coming out through grit teeth, forced from him only because of their high importance. "This is Hell. I remember – I remember that place. I remember seeing Dean after and he –," A pause, just to try and force himself to calm down, "He can't go back. Not for anyone. Not for Cas." God, if Dean heard him saying this – he was sure his older brother would have punched him several times already. But Dean's eyes after Hell – the way they had darkened – the nightmares, which had taken so long to go away. Sam's fist clenched harder as he spoke once again, his tone much more determined than it had been previously. "I won't let him." Sam watched closely as Gabriel rolled his eyes, and found himself tensing when the archangel was suddenly sitting across from him at the table.

"Kiddo – I really thought that we had learned our lesson, here. Your brother has a job to do, and he's going to do it. Heck, the guy _wants _to do it. So you really should shut your mouth, and learn to accept your brother's wishes. He accepted yours." The younger Winchester blinked. Accepted his? He was still hunting, after all these years of trying to get out. Dean was still angry with him for moving on with his life, for finding a woman, for trying to go back to law school. Dean was doing anything _but _accepting Sam's decisions, and the suggestion that Dean was even trying made the younger brother furious. "I'm not talking about that kiddie drama that you and Dean are involved in, by the way," Gabe went on, probably after having read Sam's thoughts, "I'm talking about him agreeing to let you say yes to Lucifer. For him agreeing to go see Lisa, _only_ because you thought it would be good for him. And," Gabe was laughing now, and Sam felt his nails breeching the skin of his palm, "He's working on trying to be okay without your ass around to hunt with him. He grew up raising you, kid. 'Course he's going to have some reservations about you ditching out on something you both have done all of your lives. But Cas – him and Cas – _they_ can hunt. You can go be a lawyer. Easy as that, really. All you have to do is shut your mouth and let him handle himself. Trust me. I know what's supposed to be done. Like I said before – I'm here because of the big guy upstairs."

The silence that followed Gabriel's speech was deafening, but Sam couldn't bring himself to answer. He didn't know when he'd started bleeding, but his palm looked disgusting. Little pinpricks of blood were forming right where his nails had been, removed only because he needed to call Dean. "No," Sam finally rasped, studying the archangel – who once again looked both painfully amused and annoyed – before pulling out his phone and dialing Dean's number once again.

* * *

"Another, please."

The beer was handed to Dean almost instantly, and not without another flirtatious grin. Goddamn, this chick was desperate. He'd shown no interest at all, and yet she continued to linger near his spot at the bar. Fuck, if he'd met her years ago, he probably would have taken her home. No doubt he would have shown her a good time. Now though, the only thing Dean found himself capable of was drinking more and more alcohol, hoping to god it would drown out the memories.

"_Dean?"_

Cas. Cas laughing, Cas smiling – Cas eating his first burger, using his first cell phone, drinking his first shots.

"_Dean, I'm afraid I might kill myself."_

Purgatory – Cas pulled away, and Dean hadn't known why. Now he did, and it made nothing better. Nothing was right without Cas, and Dean could not figure out, for the life of him, what was causing the emptiness he felt. Maybe it was that Cas' situation seemed eerily familiar. He could relate to not wanting to be saved – believing that no matter what anyone told you, you're not worth saving - and Dean, unable to stop the memories he'd long since tried to drown, was now seeing red.

"_Aren't you tired, Dean?" Alastair's voice was always taunting, his whisper lighter than the wind, but fiercer than any monster Dean had ever faced. His tone was almost seductive in his ear, the razor so close that Dean could see his reflection glinting back at him. "Aren't you sick of all this pain?" Narrating his point, there was another stabbing burst of agony near Dean's abdomen – had to be from a barbed knife. Teary green eyes closed, and he wished to God that he would never have to open them again. Maybe today would be the day Alastair managed to kill him again – to rip his soul apart so well that he could never magically be healed. The silence never lasted long – the screaming never dulled. "Dean." The older Winchester knew that he would only shake his head, again, as he always did, before meeting the demon's eyes. This time though – it was different. His head would not shake. His eyes would not open. "No one is coming for you. Why are you tormenting yourself this way?" For the first time in thirty years, Dean found himself believing that the demon was right. That's what it was about, wasn't it? Believing in whatever was in front of him, whatever was tangible. Sammy wasn't tangible. Sammy was gone. He'd never be back. "Come on down, Dean." The voice was so gentle, so comforting, and Dean's mouth opened, a gurgle sounding from his choked cry as Alastair ripped apart his bones. No more sleep for Dean – no more dreams, only pain. Only screaming. Only watching as his brother burned, not knowing if it was real or not. Watching as his friends perished, one by one, and unable to help because he was stuck on the rack. And the pain – fuck, the pain – it got worse, and worse, and worse, and worse, and Alastair – he never let up, never comforted, never soothed, and his bones were being crushed to dust and Sammy was burning in front of his eyes and – _

"_Sign me up."_

For so long, Dean had believed that his pitiful excuse for a soul was not worth saving. And now Cas was in Hell, _for _him, and that was so fucking unacceptable that the hunter felt physically ill. He blinked, seeing red, seeing the fire, the blood, the tears – but it would be worth it. He would go through it, over and over, would tear himself apart, would torture any demon in his way –

So long as it meant that the goddamned angel finally realized – as Dean had – that he was worth saving. Cas deserved to be saved.


	12. I'm Done Failing

"Might want to wake up, kiddo. Dean's close by." The archangel tossed a half-consumed package of licorice twists at the dozing figure on the opposite bed, certain that the impact would startle him into consciousness. As predicted, Sam was up immediately, wiping at his eyes and standing to take in the surroundings. In Gabe's opinion, the kid looked absolutely awful; the archangel made a mental note to tell him later that beauty sleep would serve him well.

"Close by? He hasn't even gotten back yet?" Remnants of much needed sleep lingered in the corners of Sam's eyes, black circles starting to form underneath the bright orbs. The clock ticked, causing the man to turn and notice the time – it was nearing six in the morning, and Dean had never come back for the night. "I mean, he's okay, right?" Panic was setting in as Sam reached for his gun, clicking off the safety after making sure it was loaded. Dammit, he knew he should have followed Dean. His older brother had an unfortunate habit of always getting himself into trouble. What if he had already found a way to get into Hell again? What if Crowley had gotten hold of him? Dammit, what if the jerk had tried making a deal with him, just as Cas had done, and not unlike what he'd done before? More panic was settling itself into the pit of Sam's stomach. "Let's go." Urgency was taking over, his movements motivated by the need to find Dean. Sam would not, under any circumstances, allow him to go back to Hell. With frantic movements that surprised even the archangel, Sam packed another gun, throwing on his coat before twisting the motel's door handle to get outside. They had so much ground to cover –

"Are you actually on your way to look for me, Sammy?" The familiar voice forced Sam to freeze. In a way, the man was both comforted and agitated by the bitter statement. It would not, however, serve Sam well to be angry. Dean wasn't in trouble – he was right here, right next to him, leaning up against the motel wall and looking up at the brightening sky. So he hadn't gone to Hell –he hadn't made a deal. That's what had to matter.

"Dean." Sam initiated the hug, pulling his older brother into him tightly. "Jesus Christ Dean, I thought you'd done something stupid."

Dean, unable to force himself to move, looked over Sam's shoulder and locked eyes with Gabriel. It was time, he knew. He'd wanted a day to prepare, and now his day was up. "I'm fine, Sam," the hunter muttered, pulling back from the uncomfortable embrace after only a short second. His hand rested on his younger brother's shoulder as he went on, trying his absolute hardest to appear prepared for what was to come. "I'm ready, Gabriel." Dean's throat was tightening around the words, each breath of air sucking the moisture from his mouth.

"No – Dean – you can't do this." Sam was in his face, so close that Dean actually contemplated taking a step backwards. He didn't budge however, standing his ground as Sam went on. "You can't – I won't let you – dammit Dean, we're supposed to do these things together. There has to be another way –"

"–Yeah?" Dean's grip on Sam's shoulder was getting harsher, his fingers digging into the thin jacket. "I don't see another way, Sammy. God _sent _Gabriel to help us. God fucking _resurrected _Gabriel to help me. So for once in your goddamned life, Sam, can you please trust that I will be okay by myself? That – oh hell –," Dean's resolve about admitting this to his brother was faltering, but goddammit to hell he was going to get these fucking words out if it killed him. "Alastair –," there, that was a good place to begin, right? "You didn't believe I could do it. You wanted to fight my battles for me, and you chose a demon over me – a fucking demon, Sammy – and you thought that drinking demon blood was a better idea than me doing what the angels wanted. You didn't believe in me. You didn't believe that I could be okay – and you didn't look for me, Sam! A year I was in Purgatory, and you sat around on your ass moving on with your life. Was that 'finding another way'? And now – I know I've fucked up Sam, I know I'm not worth much but _fuck _letting Cas rot down there because you want to 'find another way' again." His free hand was in Sam's face, gesturing as if to make his points. "No. No, this is the way I choose. This is my goddamn job – to protect you, to protect Cas. And I'm so –," Dean's words trailed off again, his breath now coming in hurried pants, because he was about to go back down to Hell, and dammit he might die, and the bastard in front of him needed to know why he was so fucking angry at him – "I'm not letting anyone else I care about down. Not dad, not Cas – not you. I've failed you before, Sammy." He took his hand from his brother's shoulder, forcing himself to swallow, though his throat was like sandpaper. "I'm done failing. You're going to let me do this, because I'm older. Because it's my job to fix our mistakes. Just – trust me. I need to do this. _I_ need to go get Cas. Not you. Not us. But for once – because fuck it Sammy, I _am _strong enough – me."

Dean didn't wait for a reaction. He stepped past the seemingly paralyzed, silent Sam, and straight up to Gabriel. "Okay. Whatever we have to do, let's fucking do it. I'm ready."

Gabe raised a brow, looking from one brother to the other, but made no sound. Well, these two certainly had a lot of issues. Maybe those issues, however, were finally on their way to being fixed. Gabe wanted to laugh at them, to say something reassuring or hilarious. But he had orders, and therefore would not poke fun at them – for now, anyway. No; instead of being funny, the archangel placed two fingers down onto the hunter's forehead, ignoring the shooting pains that vibrated through his own body, ignoring Dean's scream as the archangel's own grace covered him, and ignoring Sam's frantic, angry shouts as Dean disappeared.

"It's not 'we', Dean," The archangel breathed out as the figure was vanishing, before looking up to meet Sam's widening eyes. He'd never had to do _that _before, and holy hell, he felt drained. "Well, that was not enjoyable, but I can tell you now that your brother is going to have one _hell_ of a time downstairs." The archangel was smiling, admiring his own attempt at a joke. He was, however, unaware of the fact that he was sinking, until Sam reached out and grabbed him. Shit, had he really been that close to hitting the ground? "Hey kiddo," he was trying to joke again, as his vision started going black, "you haven't been getting nearly enough beauty sleep."

* * *

For one, burning instant, Dean Winchester felt more powerful than he ever had before – and the moment he landed in Hell, he crumpled, on his knees as a throbbing pain engulfed his chest. Hell was exactly as he remembered –loud, desperate – full of demonic, torturous bastards that all needed to die. But dammit, this wasn't his priority right now. He had to get up. And with a tremendous amount of effort, the hunter finally brought himself back to his feet.

"Cas?" He turned around, over and over, his eyes desperately trying to see through the smoky black. His lungs felt as though they were on fire, like they were filling with burning ash instead of air. "Cas," he tried again, moving forward, demon-killing knife in hand. Any bastard that tried to get in his way was going to have to pay.

"Dean Winchester, is that you?" The voice came from behind him – and Dean was on it, turning and slashing the demon's throat before the damned thing could even react. Wow, his reflexes were good. Top notch, actually. The thought brought a harsh smile to his lips as he continued battling minor demons. The pain in his chest had turned into a pressure – and Dean found that the deeper into the Pit he fought his way through, the more pressure put on his chest. Perhaps, he thought, this was a good thing. Maybe it meant he was getting closer to Cas.

Still, even with that pressure aiding his search, it was difficult to see. Dean could hardly make out anything other than bits and pieces of demons, and it was not enough. He had to find the angel – no matter what it took.

"Where's the angel?" Just like in Purgatory, Dean started to keep the demons alive for questioning, slicing into them until they offered any sort of helpful information. Torturing was so not his deal – but he'd promised. No matter what it took, he would find Cas.

If needed, the hunter knew he would torture his way through Hell to find the angel on the rack.

"Dean," There was a voice a little ways off, and Dean knew it immediately. Fuck, he had to be in the deepest part of the Pit. The hunter was soaked with demon's blood, covered in cuts from fighting, but his stamina never let up. It was like he could go on forever – and he would.

"Cas?" Hope had wormed its way into the man's voice, clouding his judgment. He started to run, forgetting about strategy, just so ready to see the angel –

"Dean, you have to _stop_ –" And a horrible, heart-wrenching sound met the hunter's ears. A scream, torn from a person's very soul, reverberated through the Pit, through _him. _The screaming was almost a gurgle, like he was choking, and the pressure on Dean's chest was not unlike a heart attack now, the screams sounding dreadfully, horrifyingly familiar –

"No!" And Dean ran faster, ready to cut to pieces whatever fucking bastard dared to hurt his angel – because he was certain he'd heard wrong –

Through the smoke, he saw his angel – and fuck it all, he was bleeding so badly, and there was barely anything left of his body, and there were actual _tears _in Cas' eyes –

"No," The word Dean let out subconsciously was swallowed by another one of the angel's screams, and Dean made to move, but froze when he heard his angel, saw the second figure – no, no, fuck, this was _impossible –_

"Dean, _please_," The angel was begging,"I can't take anymore, please –,"

More choking gurgles, and so much blood, and Dean swore he could see Cas' bones, but his eyes were focused on Cas' torturer, who had the darkest eyes he'd ever fucking seen. But it was impossible, so impossible because it was like he was looking into his past –

"_We're just getting started."_

And his angel was screaming, but Dean couldn't see, because he'd closed his eyes. Dean knew he could face any monster, any creature, any demon without flinching - he could stand up to angels, to God, to the devil -

But he did not know if he was strong enough to face himself.


	13. You're Worthless

_Bella was whimpering, the tears on her face visible only because of how thickly the blood was coated on – the blood Dean's razor had put there; the blood Dean had shed, because goddammit it felt so good to dish out some pain after going through it for so long._

"_Dean, please, please stop, I'm sorr–" But the bitch didn't get it – he'd never stop, not until her soul was ripped apart – not until her soul was destroyed, with no hopes of ever being put back together. And right now – hell – they weren't even close to that point. Dean's hand reached out, stroking through Bella's hair before yanking it back, forcing her to look at him. He hated when they looked away – hated when they closed their eyes. It was such a weak thing to do. No, they needed to know what was coming, and needed to know who was doing it to them. Dean Winchester was not a force to be reckoned with, even here in Hell._

"_Sweetheart," Dean was laughing now, his lips curved up into a smile that promised more pain – a rare smile that Bella always cringed away from. Lifting his free hand, Dean let the blade touch her face – that pretty face that she'd always flaunted on earth, tarnished with cuts. No pretty faces allowed in Hell. _

"_We're just getting started." _

Cas' screams wouldn't let up. They kept going, getting worse and worse, and still Dean couldn't find the will to move. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to believe – goddammit, this had to be some kind of horrible nightmare. He had to wake up.

"Dean, for your _own_ sake , you have to trust m–," A crunch, and Cas was violently screaming now, but there was more gurgling, more choking, and Dean wanted to run, wanted to hide – but he'd promised. He'd promised the stupid son of a bitch that he'd save him.

So, with a deep, determined breath – he opened his eyes.

A fucked up, twisted version of himself, hunched over Cas, sawing into him with absolutely no mercy or hesitation. Cas, pleading with him to stop between bursts of screaming. Himself, carving into Cas' bones, making the angel bleed, making the angel cry, and not even for a moment pausing. The torture was relentless.

It was worse than watching Leviathans run around in his meat suit.

"Stop," Dean rasped, far more weakly than he'd meant to sound. Dammit, he had to do this. It was his goddamned job, and he'd be damned if he screwed it up again. "Stop," he tried again, stepping forward this time, a crushing weight on his chest propelling him towards the two figures. Dean's double heard him now – and the look he was given, the smile on the bastard's face – it strengthened Dean's resolve. "Don't you fucking touch him you son of a bitch." The grip Dean had on his knife tightened, his fingers going white with tension – he'd kill the bastard for torturing Cas, and for using _his_ face to do it.

"Dean, Dean, Dean." The demon stepped away from the rack, approaching with careful, precise movements. If the bastard thought Dean had time to sit around and listen to his monologue-ing, he thought wrong.

"Oh, can it, would yo–"

"You can't lie to me Dean. I'm you, after all. All you." Dean's jaw ticked as he studied the demon. It couldn't be him, really. It was some sort of mind trick. It had to be, just like when he'd been tortured and thought Sam was burning alive in front of him. The double of himself with the blackened eyes was closer to him, so close Dean could feel the breath of the double's words hitting his own face. "You like torture, Dean. Makes you feel good. Makes you forget all that pain lodged up in that thick head of yours." The damned bastard was smiling again, twirling the razor back in forth between his fingers. "But I do wonder – what brings you here? This is our domain, yeah…but I didn't think I'd be seeing this pansy-ass version of myself down here any time soon." Oh, Dean was going to tear this bitch apart. He was going to rip him limb from fucking limb until the bastard was begging for death. Dean raised the knife, his green eyes locking with the double's blackened ones. The image was enough to halt his movements, only for a moment, allowing the bastard to pin him against the nearest wall. Fuck, the knife – Dean had dropped it on the floor. "You're nothing," The double went on, and Dean's stomach knotted at how _alike _this bastard was to what he had actually become in Hell. But it couldn't be possible – there was no way. Dean took a breath, his arms reaching up to push against the bitch holding him to the wall, but the demon was holding his arms. "You're useless when you don't torture. You found _one thing _that you're good at and gave it up. What the hell is wrong with you?" No – no, he wouldn't listen to this. The knife. He had to get the knife, and dammit, this wasn't real – he had to kill this son of a bitch – he had to get to Cas. Wait – Cas… there had been no screams for a few minutes at least. Dean's eyes slid over to the angel, panic rising once he realized exactly why the angel's screams had stopped. Cas was unconscious. Since when do angels get knocked out? He had no time to think on it however, as the sharp pain in his chest had returned – and it was stronger than it had ever been. But it couldn't matter – he was going to kill this son of a bitch wearing his face.

"You're wrong." And that strength Dean had felt before finally returned, and he pushed, as hard as he could, satisfied with the crunch as the look-alike collided harshly with the opposite wall. "I'm a far better man than you ever could be, you fucked up, _broken_ son of a bitch." The knife was in Dean's hands again, and before the hunter had time to process how fast he was moving, the blade was sinking into the bastard that had tortured Cas.

The victory was short lived – as soon as the light had gone out from behind the demon's eyes, Dean was standing, his breath coming in pants as he made his way to Cas.

"Cas?" Oh _god. _The guy was so much worse than he'd thought. Hardly any flesh was left, and there were so many bones showing – and what the hell was he standing in? Blood? Cas' blood? Vomit was climbing its way up Dean's throat, and he had to swallow multiple times in order to keep it down. "Cas, c'mon buddy, wake up. C'mon." Gently shaking the angel was not working – soon Dean was grabbing onto his face, the shaking becoming more frantic, more violent – more desperate. "Cas! Cas, dammit wake up. I promised."

When several minutes had gone by and the angel still showed no signs of waking up any time soon, Dean decided to focus his attention on the restraints and hooks binding Cas to the rack. His hands were shaking as he tried pulling some of the hooks apart. Goddammit, there were so many – it would take a while just to get them out of the guy's skin. An hour, maybe two had gone by, and he'd made little progress. He didn't want Cas to bleed out, and kept pausing to put pressure on the new wounds made only to help pull the hooks out. One particular hook, however, was driving the hunter mad. The entire length of it was barbed, and it cut into Dean's skin as he grabbed onto it. The pain, though, was nothing compared to what he had dealt with before. Nothing compared to what the angel was going through. "Shit, Cas," Dean's breath hitched as he discovered the hook was curled into the angel's abdomen. "I don't – I don't know how to take this out." His eyes slid over the cuts to take in the damage, and he felt the bile rising again. "Cas?" Dean looked up, away from the angel's abdomen, his hands moving to grab onto Cas' face. "Please?" For so many months he'd only dreamt of the torment Cas was being subjected to in Hell. Now it was real, tangible, and there was nothing he could do to help. Every wound on Cas' body was an affirmation of his own failures. He'd failed Cas – even when he had finally found him, fought his way through Hell to get to him – he'd still failed. "Please," his voice was ragged in its defeat as his forehead fell onto Cas'. "I don't know what to do," he admitted, everything inside him crying out, reaffirming the fact that he was worthless, that all the demon double had said about him was true. "I need you."

Dean didn't know how long he stayed motionless, his head against the angel's. It could have been days – years even – but still he stayed, his hands on Cas' face, paralyzed by the fear that Cas was dead. He couldn't bring himself to look over the wounds again – it was too much.

"D-Dea-n," A choking gurgle is what snapped Dean to full attention, his head pulling back so fast that he was certain he pulled some sort of muscle. The pain in his chest had even started up again, but none of that even mattered – Cas was alive, trying to talk.

"Cas? Cas, whoa buddy, shhh, shh," Dean's thumbs were wiping some of the blood from Cas' mouth, the ghost of a smile beginning to touch his features. "You're alive. Man, I gotta' tell y-,"

"En- enough..." Cas was choking out blood, terror causing the angel to shake.

"No, no Cas, it's _me. _Dean. It's Dean. I swear to God. I'm here to bring you back, to take you home."

There was silence for a moment – the angel studied Dean's face intently, searching for something. Dean kept absolutely still, fear in the pit of his stomach. What if Cas thought he was just the demon? What if he could never bring Cas back? What if –

"Dean." Relief. There was relief in the angel's eyes, hope in his face – but then, confusion. "How–"

"Shh, Cas," Dean's hands were working on the bindings again, with more determination than before, "I'm right here." Somehow the wounds were closing up as Dean ran his hands over them, willing them to close. He didn't question it. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. The hooks were out, the bindings were off – Dean reached up to support Cas' weight as the angel fell forwards, into his chest. "I gotcha, you stupid son of a bitch." Dean held the body to him, studying the face that was looking back up at him with a mixture of confusion and awe. "Ready to go home?"

At Castiel's short nod, Dean looked up, into the dark –

And there was a bright white light, enveloping them both as the Pit rocked and cracked –but Dean's grip on Cas never faltered.


End file.
